


Too Late to Make Sante Fe

by Scion13



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Character Death, Crutchie at the Refuge, Gen, Graphic injuries, Hurt Crutchie, Hurt/Comfort, Jack comes to the Refuge, Rated T for Safety, Refuge, Refuge shutdown, Sad Jack, Sings Sante Fe, i cried, too late, very sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 07:03:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14869007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scion13/pseuds/Scion13
Summary: They've done it. The Newsboys of New York have won the strike and shut down the refuge. Jack goes personally with Rosevelt to see it done and bring Crutchie home. However, Jack finds it is all too little too late.Also:"Then a cough rang above the voices, a cough Jack would have known anywhere, and his eyes immediately landed on a cuddled up ball on one of the top bunks. His smile faded as the coughs continued, and he carefully stepped around the other boys to reach the bunk with the shivering lump, “Crutchie?”Jack tentatively put a hand on the boy’s back, and the blankets shuffled revealing quizzical blue eyes, “Jack?”The older boy’s smile lit up again, albeit a little more forced. “Ya, course it’s me! What, ‘ave ya gone stupid while’s I was gone?” he joked, but the laugh faltered in his throat as Crutchie uncovered his face."Sorry, I don't know how to do summaries.





	Too Late to Make Sante Fe

**Author's Note:**

> Do I own Newsies? Oh, if only. Anyway, sorry this is the first fanfic I've ever posted. Really the only one I've shared with anyone. Hope you guys like it as much as I liked writing it. And by that I mean I hope you cry as much as I did. I'd love to hear any comments you guys have. Feedback, criticism, suggestions. Depending on whether you guys like this I might post more of other pieces I have. Either way, enjoy.

Jack set off up the stairs, leaving the stuffed up old men to argue over legality. He knew the building well: the stench, the way the stairs creaked, even the dim hallway lined with doors. Each brought back another biting memory, sending shivers through him. But this time it seemed a little brighter, a little better, a little more hopeful. Because this time he knew without a doubt that he would never have to see any of it again.

Sprinting down to the second to last door, Jack blew into the room like an unruly autumn wind. Tossing open the door, a smile split his face like a torn open storm cloud, “Crutchie!” he called, searching the bunks, “Crutchie, you’s never goin’ to believe it! There’s shuttin' this place down, for good! You’s comin’ home!”

Boys mumbled and yelled at this strangely excited kid making a ruckus through their room, while Jack continued to search. Then a cough rang above the voices, a cough Jack would have known anywhere, and his eyes immediately landed on a cuddled up ball on one of the top bunks. His smile faded as the coughs continued, and he carefully stepped around the other boys to reach the bunk with the shivering lump, “Crutchie?” 

Jack tentatively put a hand on the boy’s back, and the blankets shuffled revealing quizzical blue eyes, “Jack?”

The older boy’s smile lit up again, albeit a little more forced. “Ya, course it’s me! What, ‘ave ya gone stupid while’s I was gone?” he joked, but the laugh faltered in his throat as Crutchie uncovered his face. 

Jack’s mouth went dry, and he couldn’t swallow back down his hammering heart. The normally pale, freckled boy was a splotchy canvas of the most sickening design. Bruises ranging from a pale greenish-yellow to a deep rose-purple laid across his cheeks and forehead, and seemed to go on past his neckline. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and several cuts added a deep scarlet to the colorful array. The most worrying of all, however, was the shining sweat that lined the boy's brow, combined with dark bags under his eyes, and just an overall paler complexion that was hard to notice underneath his kaleidoscope of injuries. 

Another round of rattling, deep, painful sounding coughs shook both the boy’s frame and Jack from his inspection. Crutchie reached up a fist to cover his mouth, and quickly pulled it away once the coughs subsided, but not before Jack noticed a speckling of scarlet on his friend’s fingers. 

“How ya doin,’ kid?” Jack wanted to kick himself as soon as he’d asked, but Crutchie surprised him with a weak chuckle.

“I’m havin’ a real picnic.” The boy wheezed, and Jack climbed up the bunk to carefully sit next to him. Those eyes looked up at him. God, those eyes. He’d known them his whole life, each azure fleck, and deep navy ring. Yet Jack realized that he’d never really looked had he? Never appreciated them until . . .

“What’re you doin’ here, Ja-?” It was barely a breath of question, as Crutchie could barely manage a breath. His chest stuck halfway through. He gasped, eyes freezing with panic, mouth gulping like a fish out of water but unable to breathe. Terror flared through Jack’s body. 

“Shit!” He thumped a hand on Crutchie’s chest and the boy spit out blood, then finally took an agonized, shallow breath. Then another. Jack felt his shoulders relax, though the tension was still there. 

“Don’t do that!” Jack gasped, as though he had been the one unable to breathe. Crutchie looked up to respond, but then scrunched his eyes all tight and rolled into a ball, a cough raking up and down his frame, and more blood catching on his raised fist. 

Jack quickly wiped the blood from his friend’s chin with his own sleeve, and Crutchie sent him a look of sorrow at the ruined shirt. 

“Don’t even worry ‘bout that. Worry about gettin’ your sorry ass outta here!” Jack gave a big smile and Crutchie followed suit.

“For reals, Jack? We’s. . . but Snyder--” Crutchie's eyes glazed over as he clutched his own shoulders, shaking uncontrollably with fear and haunted memories. Jack waved off his struggling brother, then placed a warm hand on his back.

“For reals. We’s won the strike, Crutch, an’ they’s shutting this place down for good!” Jack stared as those eyes snapped up again, so full of joy they were threatening to spill over. A huge grin split the boy’s face, eliciting a wince but otherwise staying firmly in place. “So how’s ‘bout we’s be gettin’ you outta here? What do ya say?” Cruchie’s smile faltered, and his eyes fell back to the stained sheets. 

“Aw Jack--” He stopped for another angry, rough cough, “maybe not tonight. I ain’t slept, an’- an’ my leg. . . still ain’t right. I--” He started wheezing again and Jack’s smile faded into a wrinkled worry as he rubbed soothing circles on the boy’s back. 

“Hey, hey! Don’t worry ‘bout it a’right? You’s be getting some sleep, and-” Jack’s voice broke softly but he swallowed and kept going, “an’ we’ll be bustin’ outta here first thing tomarrah. How’s that sound, hm?” 

Before Crutchie could answer a group of officers filled in announcing that the boys were free to go. A cheer went up, as many lept from bunks and frantically gathered up their few belongings to race out. 

“Hey. . . Jack?” Crutchie asked weakly, laying his head down on the older boy’s lap. 

“Ya- ya, kid?” Jack started running his hand through the matted blond curls. 

“You. . . would you stay?” Crutchie finally managed. Eyes drooping as his breaths got slower and slower. 

“Of course! Of course I’ll stay, Crutch. I’ll stay all night till we can get’s you out. Them boys are dyin’ to see ya. They won’t let me in if I don’t bring you with me. Ter be honest, I think you’re the only reason they’s keepin’ me round.” Jack’s rambling was cut off by another wheezy chuckle that turned into a gasping, wet cough. 

“Thanks Jack,” Crutchie mumbled. And they sat like that for quite some time, the sun falling lower and the light dimming to a bright orange in the room. Finally when the only sounds left were the wheezing breaths, Crutchie opened his eyes again. 

“Jack?” 

The newsies leader wasn’t sure he had even heard it, but he leaned closer to the boy on his lap and whispered, “I’m here, Crutch. I’m right here.”

“Will ya . . . sing? Like. . . like on--” He started to cough but it was cut short as he couldn’t find enough breath to fill it, “‘bout-- Santa Fe?” Crutchie finally finished weakly, rasping with tears in his eyes. 

Jack could feel his own tears threatening on the corner of his vision, and a hard lump in his throat had to be swallowed before he could even start. “Ya, Crutch, sure thing.” Jack tore his gaze from his friend and focused firmly on the opposite wall taking a deep breath. 

“Close your eyes. Come with me. Where it’s clean and green and pretty,” Crutchie closed his eyes while Jack sniffed, whipping his nose with the bloody sleeve, “An’ they went and made a city outta clay.” Jack absently began running his fingers through Crutchie’s hair as the young boy fell back to sleep.  
“Why the moment that you get there, folks will walk right up and say, ‘Welcome home, son, welcome home to Santa Fe. Plantin’ Crops, splittin’ rails, swapin' stories around the fire- *sniff- cept for Sunday when you lie around all day. Soon your friends are more like family, and they’s beggin' you to stay. Ain’t that neat?- *sniff- Livin’ sweet, in Sante-- Crutchie?” 

Jack stopped. The boy beneath him had gone still, the wheezing had stopped. 

“Crutchie?” Jack asked again, more forcefully, panic mounting as he shook his brother’s thin frame, “Crutchie! C’mon! Crutchie, wake up! You can’t- please!” Jack sobbed then, hands curling around Crutchie’s limp body, “PLEASE!” He shoved his ear on to Crutchie’s chest listening for something, anything. 

Nothing. There was nothing. No rise of the chest, no weak beating heart, not even a rattling wheeze. Just silence, a deafening. . . dead silence.  
"Crutchie!" Jack was screaming, but the boy didn't stir. He slammed a hand on the boy's chest, "C'mon! C'MON! PLEASE! Crutch. . ." Jack sobbed, fist falling to his side before he pulled the boy into his chest and cried openly, not caring who heard. Just asking, begging, for Crutchie or Race or Specs or God or anyone to stop this. To say it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. After everything- he was here, Crutchie was with him, he was safe! And he cried and he screamed and he cursed and spit at the unfairness of it all, as he held his brother to him. 

It must have been hours before he stopped. The light had completely gone, and so had the screams and sobs, but tears still ran in steady streams down the newsie’s leader’s cheeks, glinting in the moonlight.

“Don’t you’s know that we’s a family? Would I let you down? . . . no way. . . Just hold on, kid, till that train makes Sante Fe . . .”


End file.
